


easy, baby

by brawlite



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: DEFINITELY not the way you gunplay holy shit this is dangerous don't do this, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gunplay, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Prostate Milking, hot power top jack rollins, not ssc, ugh i don't know, un-edited, various and sundry consent issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4251933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Easy</i>, baby."</p>
<p>The words fall so perfectly out of Jack's mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	easy, baby

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Тихо, детка.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9858185) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



" _Easy_ , baby."

The words fall so perfectly out of Jack's mouth.

_Easy, baby_. As he diffuses a bomb. His hands large, but deft, as they disconnect wires without a worry in the world. He's as meticulous as a jeweler, attention rapt and hands skilled and steady.

_Easy, baby_. As he laughs, kicking a feisty, mouthy rookie while they're down, teaching them a lesson with a boot right to the ribs. They struggle, because of course they do, but he holds them down effortlessly with a heel on their back until the struggle gives right out. _Easy_ , he murmurs down at them, humor and disdain and a little bit of pride in his voice.

_Easy, baby_. As he puts his hands up in surrender, quieting their Winter Soldier after a particularly gruesome mission. He's good with the kid because he's good with feral animals -- always knows what way to move his body to minimize the threat in his bones, knows just the way to tone his voice or change his stance. He's always the one who gets the asset compliant and relaxed after a shit-storm of a mission, with his soothing tones and resolute patience.

_Easy, baby_. As he runs a big hand over the muscle of Brock's ass, soothing, calming -- like Brock's a wild fucking animal, trembling under his touch.

Brock would spit out something nasty if he could -- if words weren't like sandpaper on his tongue, turning to dust before he can even remember what language he speaks. He wants to curse, to chide, to fucking sneer; but Jack's got him mindless at this point, subdued to the point of humiliation. It'd be so bad if it weren't so good, if it didn't get him right in the gut, making his stomach churn with that beautiful kind of need that only Jack stirs in him. 

Alls he can taste is gunpowder and lube.

First, from the gun Jack shoved down his throat. No -- not shoved, it had been more ceremonious than that. Jack had lovingly worked the piece down Brock's throat, easy and patient as he went. He'd taken it from Brock simply, without a word, but with a shine in his eye that spoke volumes to his desires. And when Jack got all quiet and authoritative like that, shoulders squared and a mission on his mind, who was Brock to say no? He didn't back down from a challenge and he couldn't back down from steady, resolute Jack Rollins. And he was absolute putty in Jack's hands when he turned on that voice, that soothing murmur coupled with his strong hands holding Brock in place.

The taste of lube lingered from the fingers that had found their way into Brock's mouth after Jack had spent ages stretching him out, patience of a saint. There were no words that could make Rollins budge or make him pick up the pace when he was relishing the experience, taking pleasure in the technique, in the torture. Pleading only made him slow down and any noises only fueled his ego. When Jack finished with him, deemed him loose and ready enough, he made his commanding officer lick off his fingers twice over, get him all nice and clean. 

But the memory of fingers inside him is days and years away. Not when he's left empty with only the memory of Jack's heat next to him, phantom touches of calloused fingertips.

" _Easy."_ Jack goes from somewhere behind him, and --

_Click_  

\-- the sound of Jack cocking the gun.

All of the air rushes right out of Brock's lungs, and right out of the fucking room. His heart goes million miles a second, hammering away in his chest like a goddamn machine gun. They've never done it like this before: gun never cocked and loaded and _ready_ in Jack's hand. 

Deadly.

But Jack is steady -- all holier and mightier than thou -- with his _steady, Brock, steady_ and the brush of his fingers over Rumlow's skin. Calming, like he's talking to the Soldier with his wild eyes and trembling muscles. There's something about the tone that he can't get enough of, like he's dying of thirst for Jack's voice and his presence. And god damn, Rumlow can't even muster up an argument, with the way he's shaking out of need and his brain fucking _knowing better_. This is wrong, _wrong_ , **_wrong_** \-- 

And it's so goddamn good when cool metal presses against him. Jack holds the piece there for a minute, undoubtedly watching the way Brock's hole stutters and pulses against it, loose and slick from three of Jack's fingers inside it only moments before. Brock _needs_ it, whines for it, too undone to even care. And Jack works on his own time, eases inside when he sees fit, after Brock is good and broken from waiting. 

Rollins, with his steady hand, starts pressing the gun into him, never easing up, but never giving Rumlow more than he can take. And it takes every ounce of self control for Brock to not shoot off himself in that first second, against that first firm and biting press. He loves the pain, loves the way it makes him hiss at the intrusion, but it's so worth it when Jack keeps _going_ , keeps stretching him with his own goddamn pistol. The metal warms with his skin, with his insides, though each new bit that presses inside brings a pleasant punch of cold as it hits him, as it seeps his body's warmth.

It's not Jack's cock, but it might as well be with the way Jack rocks it into him, pressing the top of the pistol right against that sweet spot inside, hard enough to make Rumlow's cock drip onto the sheets. It's unfair, the way Rollins works it like an extension of himself, like another body part he's intimately familiar with. There's something wonderful about the unforgiving nature of the metal, the way it's never _quite_ warm enough.

"So good, baby. You got this. Fuck -- look at you taking this for me, so perfect." And Jack can never stop running his fucking mouth and now it's got Brock shaking in different ways than the usual annoyance. Sometimes, Jack talks and it makes Brock go belly-up, rolling over nice and easy for his second in command like he was built for it. And of course, Jack points it out, grinds that in a little worse and makes Brock shudder just that much more. 

Rumlow shakes and pants and _whines_ as Jack digs the gun into him, makes him leak repeatedly and without reprieve, and Rollins doubles back to _easy, easy_ again with a smile and a brush of his hand over flank. Soothing.

Brock can barely get a breath in with the way Jack alternates between milking him like that and soothing him like an animal, sweet-talking down at him like he's a shaking virgin. And of course it's that thought that gets him whimpering, pressing his hips back and arching his back -- the depravity of it all, left unspoken.

" _Easy_ , baby," And Jack's normally all about the filth, about talking trash and making Rumlow feel dirty and _used_. But it's when he gets like this that Rumlow really feels it in his gut, feels those words working their way inside him in a truly sinful way. He can't help but moan, can't help but curse when Jack breathes out a _Careful_ , and strokes down his back, shushing him and soothing him. It's disgusting. It's _exhilarating_. 

After what feels like hours, he builds up a rhythm, though he never stops stilling and steadying Rumlow with one of those giant hands clamped down over his hip, rocking him with Jack's movements. He manages to work the metal piece into Brock with astounding accuracy, making Rumlow's knees tremble, his back sweat, and his vision blur until he's begging for it. 

And it's then that Jack gives. He pushes the gun _hard_ into Brock, grinding it repeatedly over that sweet spot, finally relenting with his other hand to jerk him off at the same time. It's embarrassing how few strokes it takes until Brock is gasping and spilling onto the sheets, hips shuddering and shaking and bucking against Jack's hand like an animal. His vision blacks out but he doesn't give a flying fuck, because his whole body is tingling and he feels loose and goddamn heavenly. 

When he comes to again, drags himself out of his religious fucking experience, Jack's leaning against the headboard, hands working just as skillfully at cleaning off Brock's gun. Feeling isjust starting to come back to his extremities in the form of a blissful ache, and it takes him a second to notice that Jack's leg is draped over his own, one singular and steady point of contact.

Brock lets out one breath and the faintest hint of a satisfied smile. He nods to the gun in his partner's hands, "Thanks. For cleaning it." To which Jack just laughs and laughs.

 

**Author's Note:**

> lalalala i have no excuses


End file.
